


Lightning Field

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: One Shot, POV Second Person, Season/Series 06, Sequel, and of joan/vera, just a mention of joan/jianna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Joan Ferguson survives and pays Will Jackson a visit. { Somehow, you're alive. You survive and yet, it's like you're barely breathing. What an automaton you've become. } Sequel to Exuus.





	Lightning Field

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Exuus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682545) by [oceansinmychest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest). 



> I decided that I wanted to create a sequel from Joan's perspective. Thought that could be a bit of a fun practice. The title is inspired by the song of the same name by the band, Sneaker Pimps.

> _Wash the questions off my hands, I'm the fate in no one's plans._

There's a bad moon on the rise, but you can't see it. Bit by bit, dirt falls down. The bloody earth collapses upon your infrastructure. Bea Smith's portrait stares back at you, her smile luminous in the dark.

Infuriated, broken, fucking **ruined** – you scream.

You breath through clenched teeth in rapid, little bursts. Finally, the calm sinks in. Your father (Devil that he was) raised a trooper. For now, you ignore the filth though you cannot control your shivering, your shaking, your perpetual flexing.

Your throat constricts. From the affliction, it's turned raw. Hoarsely panting, you strike a match. Friction sparks the flame. Before your granite stare, the fire dances small and subtle, but seductive in its illumination.

You get to work.

Panic simmers down along with the remaining light. Your anger – your Godly wrath – serves as a powerful motivator. Palms press up against the cheap pine that keeps you confined. You test the sturdiness of your makeshift tomb.

You won't be able to look at a garden the same way again.

The gaudy teal sweatshirt becomes a mask. You take it off, exposing your white undershirt. Regulating the flow of oxygen, you begin to kick at the pine ceiling with your feet. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. It matches the panic in your heart.

_Crack!_

You break free. The Phoenix lives to see another day. This cheap tomb has already begun to split from the pressure. Brute force contributes to the inevitable collapse. Bare hands, one scarred and one undamaged, push the dirt towards the end of this confined space. Your breathing's ragged, your ministrations rival a frantic animal. You push aside the sediment and allow yourself some empty space.

Refusing to be mummified as another sycophant, you sit up. You continue to redistribute the dirt until, at last, you stand. You dig your way through the clay. Today is not the day that you will die.

You thank Vera's kiss of life for that.

Your white sleeve, now tarnished, coasts along your thin, grimacing mouth. With your knuckles scraped bloody and raw, you did it. You survive. Your father raised a soldier and so, you thrive. You commence your lonely march, more of a shambling corpse than anything. One, aching leg sets foot in front of the other.

Your hand flies towards your pulsating, wounded throat. The barbed wire scare is here to remain. The Devil's rope can be so cruel. You rub and you rub, but it's not enough – never enough – to alleviate the pain.

Closing your eyes, you shamble down the lonely road that's bathed in deep navy. And what of your darling Jianna? You think of her as your angel, your savior, and even in your solitude, you mumble just how _sorry_ you are.

There goes the last scrap of your humanity. Bitterly, you reflect on how the irony is not lost upon you. The red line resembles a ribbon. How it haunts you, the same as the past. Your head fell apart (OFF) long ago.

Now, you've transformed into the archetypal, cartoonish villain. No wonder you were thrown to the mob scene – to the filthy pigs who squealed for fresh fodder. Weakly, mechanically, her fists bang against your thighs. Chalk it up to the poor writing that is your life.

In this dire circumstance, you could have gone to Vera first. Her reconciliation came in the form of your life extended, but you've haunted her enough. You've dismantled her in every way conceivable.

You make everyone pay and so will you.

You visit the man who took away your joy.

This isn't revenge, this is justice.

You know where Will Jackson lives. Once, you had driven him home, your leather gloves gleaming in the night light. Lightning flashes without the promise of rain though the threat lingers in the air, the scent heavy.

Through the backyard, you enter. Now, soil clings to your white tennis shoes. Nothing about you is clean. Your skin crawls. Your cheeks hollow and quiver, but you remain strong – empowered. Born anew, you won't let them see your pain.

Your eyes linger on the tool shed. It's dead-bolted. You think of the shovel – the culprit – and how, knowing someone as simple-minded as Will, the tool of your demise lies there.

Quietly, you break into his house. Along the way, you discovered a melted, prepaid debit card. That's the tool of your trade as you slide it through the door. A few minutes of silent fussing earns a hearty _click_.

As a custom, you take off your shoes. Set them in a row by the mat. You do not explore his home out of curiosity. Rather, you do so to locate your exit strategy. You memorize each room should the going get rough, but it won't. His guilt is your sword.

You find him in his bedroom, tossing and turning. The sheet holds him hostage. Good, you think. He deserves to be tormented by his conscience and wretched hero complex. Calmly, you sit down in the plush chair opposite of his resting, restless form.

You imagine your hands wrapped ‘round his corded throat. That’s not logical, you decide. They twitch in your lap, vipers itching to strike. As a distraction, your hands come together.

Will Jackson is your exit strategy.

Wentworth will see you dead, but he'll keep you alive for his regret is a silent suffocator.

You recall three moves in fencing. How they resonate now: Defense. Lunge. Parle. It all falls into place.

“Hello, Will.”

You remain civil. Somehow, you keep the acid at bay. These days, you’re caustic. You aim to hurt as you’ve been hurt.

Your hair has messily fallen out of its ponytail, silver strands brushing against your proud and noble profile. Fingers sink deeper into your knuckles. The dim light caresses your face in a half-mask.

“Have you met your maker?” You ask in a low timbre. You sweetly sing his worst nightmares, the cadence of his breath an amphetamine for the wound of betrayal cut deep.

There’s lightning outside. A monster stirs awake.


End file.
